The cross town bus pulled up to a decrepit and nondescript brick building in one of the seedier neighborhoods in Hollywood. The stop bell had been dinged, but the driver did not see anyone getting off.

"Quit playing with me! I've got a schedule to run behind on, here!" The bus drove off in a cacphony of fouls smells and loud engine noises.

Two grey wool socks rolled up the sidewalk to the entrance of the building. Above the door was a faded sign that read: pshrynk Enterprises, Therapy, Medications, Bad Advice, and High Bills." Under it, somehone had painted in: "pshrynk Productions." They rolled through the door, past a seat that had a sign tacked to it that read: "Out running errands for my uncle. Just leave the $300 in the box." The box had been stolen already this morning.

Inside the office, there was a fat, greying man with a beard shouting on the phone.

"WHAT? That's highway robbery, that is! ... I don't care if your insurance went up after the last time you used it. It's not my fault that the damned thing got shot at... Okay, I grant you that thLook, how can we make an epic drama of a bush pilot and the love of his life, if there is no plane for him to fly? It would look pretty stupid him driving around in a car everywhere. Espcially the scene with the giant squid off the coast of Panama! ... Fine! I'll just have to cut back on the extras and the CGI budget!" He slammed the phone down and looked at the socks. "What do you two want?"

The socks danced around his feet, pantomiming.

"Why should I hire you again? All you do is lose the script and then improvise your scenes!"

More dancing.

"I'm not really sure that smart wool socks are covered as an oppressed minority, here."

More dancing.

"So? Even the dog has a fan club."

Still more dancing.

"Well, I'll grant you that the test groups do give you a high acceptance rating..."

More dancing.

"Fine! But I have anticipated your return. Hugo, Lefty, meet Vinnie."

In the corner of the room a very large man with an ill fitting suit cracked his knucles and glared at the socks.

"Vinnie here is going to be the keeper of the scripts for you two. This time I will not be surprised to find one of them for sale on eBay!"

Lt Col Edwards took careful aim at the face in front of him and gave the trigger a slow squeeze. A gratifyingly large hole appeared in FDR's forehead as dust filled the room. He heard yelling coming from the hallway and ignored it. This was the by God Army and if you couldn't dodge a 45 slug that had been slowed down by two plaster walls and the occasional filing cabinet, then you should have signed up for the Coast Guard. Similarly, if they didn't want him to do target practice indoors, then they would not have insisted on putting a portrait of the president on his wall. Sure the guys over at Navy liked him, but who cared about a bunch of squids? Someone had once suggested that a .22 with reduced charges would cause less structural damage. Pansies.

A nameless secretary dashed in, dropping off the foreign dispatches and her resignation. Some day they would take his recommendation and have his office manned only by Rangers, but until then, he had to put up with the offended memos that occasionally got sent around by HR. He picked up the top dispatch and skimmed through it. From Biggles, who had managed to turn an exile posting to Panama into a disaster beyond even the comprehension of the War Planning Department. What bit of wild fantasy was the boy reporting now?

He stopped cleaning his pistol after the first paragraph. He stopped pouring the coffee after the second. After the third, he actually put on his reading glasses. The buggers! How could this have happened in his United States of America? Then he remembered. The report was from Biggles. Just about anything could happen.

"PORKEN!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Intercoms were another thing for sissies in Lt Col Edwards' world.

A thin faced second lieutenant peered around the corner of the door, a haunted looking his eyes. "Yes sir? By the way, the last secretary in the typing pool has quit, so we're going to be doing our own for a few days."

"Porken, I need you to get a few financials for me. And have them put the next portrait on the other wall."

"Directly into my office. Yes, sir. I understand the Air Corps has some new flak jackets they want to try out. I shall requisition one for myself. What, specifically do you need the financials on, sir?"

"Flak jackets are for pansies! Learn to duck! Have them find out how much we can allow for catering and floral arrangements!"

"Yes, sir. I believe I shall get some sand bags for my desk as well. Any particular region to get the quotes from?"

"Long Island, for some reason. And get my Mess Dress to the cleaners! I've got a wedding to go to!"

Vera sat at her desk, batting the swinging balls on her executive toy, idly wondering if there was going to be anything interesting happening that day. The hot Panama sun beat down on the street outside her office window, making movement of necessity languorous and deliberate. Perfect weather for the Panamanian Synchronized Sauntering Team's practice that was going on just outside. The sounds of the occasional passing out member was about the only thing to be heard other than the background music for the sauntering. THey were currently trying out a freeform performance and it did not seem to be going well.

Picking up the incoming dispatches that she'd stolen from Biggles' inbox, she looked over what the OSI HQ wanted them to be paying attention to this week. It turned out that they wanted the Panama office to pay attention to German and Japanese activities, especially the numbers and types of vessels registered to each country passing through the canal. She quickly made up some numbers and forged Biggles' signature under a report and put it in her out basket.

There was a request for information available on the Swahili Nation's activities in the lower Carribean. She ignored that. It was just Bois Aussi's attempt at padding his expense account and nothing to be given any attention. She put it in her Back to Biggles box, know ing that it would keep her boss busy and out of her hair for at least a week.

There was a request for a report on the whereabouts of one Magamont Montsnmags, MD (retired) and his current activities. She chuckled at the concept of having an actual pinpoint whereabouts or even a whenabouts of someone who lived both forward and backward in time. She put a "send further clarification" annotation at the bottom and put it in the out box. This query had volleyed back and forth to the HQ for about a year. Vera figured that eventually it would land on Lt Col Edwards' desk, at which point it would be used for target practice and would be there after be out of circulation for at least another year.

She picked up the last dispatch labeled Miyatake Family and read it through. Usually these she put in the Back to Biggles box, just for the comic relief, but this one was more interesting. Pulling out her code book, she fiddled with her Captain Midnight Decoder Badge Ring. She rang Biggles' secretary.

"Margaret, I need to get some reason figured out why I should go to Long Island."

"My name is Mabel. Any time frame we need to work in?"

"Whatever. Before the Fourth of July. And we need Biggles' to actually sign off on this one."

"Ill get on it. I'll slip the requisitions into his lunch order sheets."

Vera leaned back and tapped her pencil absently on the arm of her chair. She was going to have to figure a way to get Harv to ferry her up north, since this was going to require some of the unique talents inherent with having a talking dog as a copilot.